


She Breaks Her Toys

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Double Penetration, F/M, Humiliation, Rape, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for Drone Season 2014 featuring The Condesce and The Psiioniic. Nothing but porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Breaks Her Toys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnonEi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEi/gifts).



> To AnonEi,  
> I'm sorry it's such a piddly, short thing but I sincerely hope that I've made something that you enjoy. I have to admit, what I have here isn't my first attempt at filling the prompts you gave, but my other attempts would've warranted a lot more time and effort than just the bit that we were allotted and what I could make do with my schedule. If I ever get the inkling to pick up those old beginnings, I'll be sure to let you know! But in the meantime, I hope that this little fic is good for what you wanted. Cheers, friend. Joy to you. <3

He’s not any sort of beautiful.  Strung-out muscle over bone, scrappy and pointy and even sallow-looking at times.  You’ve had more attractive subjects in in your time in the exact position he’s in right now.  But you didn’t like  any of them near as much as you like him.  He’s not beautiful at all but he’s so utterly _broken_ that it’s the most delightful tingle in your fins.

His grip tightens around the chains that string up his twiggy little wrists.  You watch the naked, knobbled, curve of his back rise and fall as he breathes.  His legs are spread; his head is down.  He is about as turned on as a subjugglator and a killjoy convention.  You’re not surprised.  This is all old news and unhappy engagement for him, boring and unpleasant.   But that’s your favorite part: making him want it.

It’s an easy thing, stirring him up, though he’d love to deny it. No one touches him anymore, by your command.  He’s led by chains and kept in solitude and though it isn’t unheard of for trolls to go without physical contact from others for perigees at a time, the concupiscent urges during the Mating Season aren’t as easy to ignore for a fully matured adult like him.  He kneels there with his head hung low and his bulges sheathed but pheromones pour off him like perfume with every exhale.

The folds of his nook are flushed and golden, shiny with the first drips of genetic material.  If he’s wet it’s only because of a biological response to the season.  He’s waiting for you to just use him the way you have every other time.  But you have other plans.

He twitches a little when he hears your heels hitting the floor as you draw closer to him.  He tries so hard not to be affected by what you do but he’s not quite that broken – not yet.  There’s still a fight in him for dignity.  You think to yourself that you can help him with that.  He doesn’t need to hang on to anything like decency anymore.  You kneel behind him and bring your hands up to stroke the backs of his thighs.  The barest tinge of psionics dances against your fingers and wrists.  It’s all he can manage with the dampening collar clamped around his neck.  But you’re fond of it.  It’s how he watches you when he can’t look your way.  He knows he can’t push you back or make you stop but he’s going to keep track of you as best he can.

So you’re sure it’s no surprise to him when your fingers trace along the smoothness of his rear and then dip inwards, caressing the spread lips of his nook.  His breath hitches and he goes still.  You trace along the twitch of his entrance: downwards to linger at his sheathe and see if you can coax him out for a few moments, then back up again, stroking a knuckle against the dip of his folds.  He shudders.  He doesn’t speak.  He’s given up on speaking, though sometimes you feel like it could be a game for you.  A challenge to see if you can get him to say anything.  Even if it’s only a protest, one last attempt to make you stop.

So you brace yourself with your hands on his hips and lean forward.  You tilt your head just so and your tongue slides out and you lick him, right between the lips of his nook.  And that’s enough to make him gasp.  Your tongue is long and your press it against him as the tip teases at his sheathe.  You hear the chains rattle as he grips them harder.  The soft touch of psionics lingers against your tongue and teeth.  He’s shivering.  He probably thinks you’re going to bite him.  You’ve bitten him before, but not in a place so tender.

Your tongue teases and laps at him, pressing into him every now and then to withdraw sour-tasting licks of his genetic material.  Makes you hum with satisfaction.  He trembles as you lap at him.  Your hands soothe up and down the backs of his thighs while you kiss his nook.  He’s loosening up beautifully for you.  His sheathe is dilating like you wanted.  He’s fighting it, though; his voice is held back behind stifled gasps and groans.  You lick a string of material away from your lips as you pull back and murmur,

“C’mon now, honeygrub, don’t hurt yourself. You’re jus’ gonna make it worse.”

He stiffens.  But after a few seconds, he forces himself to relax.  He knows well enough that you’re right.  You hear him take a deep breath and when he lets it out in a shaky hiss, his bulges unsheathe in a slow curl.  You press another kiss to the wet folds of his nook as you twine your claws with his bulges.  You work them between your fingers gently.  His chains rattle as he clenches them.  Again, your mouth presses to his nook and your twofold attentions coax him all the way out of his sheathe.  They curl in on each other, writhing messily and dripping in a little puddle beneath him.

You pull back just enough to take him in.  His back heaves in shortened breaths now.  His thighs are wet with secreted gold as his bulges twist around in search of a welcoming nook to penetrate and fill.  Well, you think you can help him with that.  Your fingers touch the tips of his bulges.  They curl eagerly around your digits, leaving him to gasp at the renewed contact.  Sweet as honey, you guide them back and up to his own nook.  And though he almost chokes himself, he’s so startled, his bulgetips probe inside his warm heat without much coaxing.

“No…no, don’t make me,” he finally pants.  But you just grin and click your tongue at him.

“You gotta have done this before,” you say as you give a little push to his bulges.  They plunge in deeper and he groans.  “Errybody tries it ‘least once in their life:  lil self-palin’ before final molt ‘n the drones start givin’ a shit.  Do it again; make it an even two.  Ain’t you all about that?”

Your hands stroke up his back and you just pet him while he tries to convince his bulges to not fuck his own nook.  It’s not easy since he can’t use his hands and his body is already begging for a mate.  He struggles hard with it and you can feel your own bulge starting to struggle at your sheathe at the sight.  Your claws scratch.  You slice through the first few layers of his skin and he hisses in agony.  His muscles clench, his bulges are drawn in. 

That was all the push he needed.  With a sob of what you’re sure is self-loathing, as his back wells with pretty lines of yellow blood on obsidian flesh, his bulges alternate pushing into his nook.  One after the other, stretching him out and making him whimper a little with each thrust inside.  You’re licking your lips, hungry for him.

You withdraw, leave him to himself as you peel out of your clothes.  Your bulge unsheathes easily and you stroke at it as you watch him.  The sound of his bulges sliding into his nook one after the other is sloppy and crude; a splash of genetic material gushes out with every thrust.  You think to yourself that you could probably fit into that already overstuffed nook is you wanted.  There might be blood but you could make it work.  But your attention focuses on the quivering twitch of his waste chute sphincter and you feel a delicious impulse of nastiness in you.

You take him by the hips, swiping up a swath of his spilled material from the floor.  You let it drip from your talons and onto the pucker of his hole.  It’s enough to make him shiver as you wipe the rest of it against him.

“Don’t, don’t, god, don’t fucking do this,” he starts pleading.  But that just makes you want it more.  Your bulge slides between the two of his for a moment, just to coax him into shutting up and getting back to work and then you guide it away from the inviting warmth of his nook.  The tip teases against that tight pucker and, god, you know he’s gonna squeeze you so tight when you get inside him.  You can’t stand to wait.  You’re dripping on him.  You pull those skinny little ass cheeks apart with your thumbs and the tip of your bulge squirms into him.  It makes him _scream_ insults at you and that make a little dribble ooze down your thighs.

You don’t wait.  You push in more.  You push in all the way until he’s gasping and crying for breaths.  He’s gone still while you’ve been focusing on getting inside.  Inside where he’s burning hot and gloriously clenched around you, his muscles spasming.

“You…y-you’re fucking sick!” he yells.  His hands yank hard on his chains and you feel that grubling-light brush of psionic energy squeeze at your throat.  Your hips convulse forwards and he gasps before he goes on.  “You’re fucked in in the pan, you psychotic hellbeast!”

You laugh aloud and shut him up by letting your bulge thrash inside him.

“Say that all you like, guppy,” you croon out to him as pleasure shivers delightfully through you, “you’re still soakin’ wet.  Your freak bulges are still squirmin’ inside you.  Jus’ close your eyes and think of your loudmouth boyfrond if it helps.  Yeah, pretend it’s his mutant bulge up your chute, since ya seem to like it so much.”

“You shitfucker!”

“Bet you’da loved it if he asked you real sweetly to fuck you in shit-hole while you pailed yourself stupid.”

“FUCK YOU!”

“You jus’ keep in mind who’s cum you’ll be shittin’ out when all’s said an’ done, you pathetic fuck!  Disgrace my empire all you like but jus’ remember who owns your ass!”

You press his bulges into his nook with one hand and fuck his asshole ruthlessly.  And he fights and struggles and spits curses at you like his spit is venomous.  You lean on his body and wrap your arms around him to lick at his neck and ear while you fuck him.

“Hate you,” he chants, “hate you, I hate you, I fucking hate you. You’re the sickest piece of shit incarnate….”

“Yeah, guppy, hate me, make it good.  I’ll let you get me back if you come first.”

“Liar,” he snarls.

You grab the dampening collar around his neck and tear through it easily enough.  You keep in in place with a tightly-clenched fist, though.

“Come for me; I’ll throw it away forever,” you breathe into his ear.  “Call out his name when you do and I’ll give you your shot right fuckin’ now.”

You pump your bulge into his abused hole once…twice…three times more and then his whole body shudders hard under you.  His muscles squeeze around you over and over and you bite him hard on the back of the neck as you come right after him.  Pleasure blinds you and you can feel the pulses of it echoing back and forth between you and him.  His groaning and your sighs harmonize together beautifully.

You catch your breath.  You pull out, pull away and hold him by the neck as you pull up the pail and set it between his legs.

“Get it all out, skinny,” you say sweetly, still catching your breath as he growls at you.  But his bulges retreat from his nook and thick, yellow spurts of his own genetic material come pouring out of him.  It splashes loudly into the pail and with a little trembling twitch, his waste chute spasms and your slurry gushes out.

“Fuckin’ nasty,” you giggle to yourself as you hold him and stare.  He whines in humiliation.  Eventually he runs dry, all fucked out, sloppy, and an absolute mess.  You snatch the collar away from his neck and throw it aside.  And though a surge of strengthened psionics goes straight for your jugular, it falls away and fades as soon as you elbow him hard in the back of the head.  He doesn’t get that free shot.  He didn’t even open his mouth when he came, the fucker.

You leave him there for your guards to collect and clean up and throw back into solitude as you climb into your recooperacoon.  He can have his attempt at vengeance later.  Right now, you just want a nice post-pailing nap.  Next time, you think you’d like to look at his face when he comes.  You’ll bet it’ll be so pretty you could just spit on it.


End file.
